


Fondest, Blindest, Weakest.

by Rabbit



Category: 1602
Genre: Gen, M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2005
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabbit/pseuds/Rabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After-canon: Matthew Murdoch fufills a promise and a threat, and the inhabitants of the New World are pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fondest, Blindest, Weakest.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ion Bond](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ion+Bond).



He is standing in a room with many others, hundreds and thousands of others, ranged out as if in a forum around a central dais. On the dais stands a man, or seems to stand a man, slowly turning about the room, acknowledging everyone in it, cursorily. Looking for something, maybe. His lip twitches upwards. He hunts sometimes, he might search--but he doesn't look, after all.

The eyes pass over him twice before they settle on him, and he doesn't notice that he's held his breath each time until they do settle, and he is still holding his breath. He lets it out and doesn't move. He cannot see the eyes of course; they make themselves felt. At least, he does not think he can see them, and then he realises that the eyes are blue.

He remembers blue.

That is when he wakes, stomach lurching in his gut, though he does not recall having fallen asleep. He is in the chilly, dark hold of cargo ship, making the crossing from France where he'd been doing a little bit of work for someone or other whose name he didn't know, which suited him fine. He'd paid well in the end for the thing Matthew had retrieved for him, and that was what mattered most--that and getting back to Britain, and firm British soil beneath his feet. Not that he minded the ocean all that much, but the rocking and leaking of the ship--the stench of the hold and the sailors--it was almost too much for his delicate nostrils, as he put it. Not that parts of London were all that much better, but one could generally walk out of those. On a ship it was the salt above or the stale below, and the rocking isn't to his taste in either place. If only he could fly, like others he'd known in his time. If he could fly, he could do it tonight, what he means to do.

It came to him in dreams, but he's got good reasons to think that his dreams are telling him the truth, and all that comes with such. A promise having been made once, so too must a visit... a short, but necessary visit, one he is looking forward to, in a fashion. Grinning, he decides to clamber onto the deck for a breath, the salt winning out for a little while, at least.

On the deck, he notes the ripple-crack of the sheets above, the ripple-swell of the ocean below, the lack of obstacle in any direction, though he suspects, by the current's strike on the bow, that land may not be far in coming. Merciful God provide it so.

"LAND HO!" Cries the man from the crow's nest, sure enough. Matthew smiles, anticipating with pleasure the next night's work--after some rest, a sleep at a good inn, a mug of ale, some fresh bread and cheese, and sausages. That would be just the thing indeed. Merciful God, apparently, saw fit to provide. Matthew smirked at this--a devil, as it were, daring to lay claim to his due.

****  
He remembers fear like he remembers colors, distant things from childhood put away when he no longer needed them. Now that he is a man he knows that he is more and less than other men, though that is not the way it has always been. He was not born this way.

But the eyes settle on him still--they see him, and he sees them--and they are blue.

****

He is standing besides a man with blue eyes, and he can see the man and the man can see him, and they can see each other. The man is a Spaniard in red robes, and a smooth scalp, and he thinks that he has seen the man before, somewhere.

The man is looking at him, and he is looking at the man.

"Matthew Murdoch," Says the Spaniard, and the blue eyes blink, "You were a friend of Nicholas Fury."

"I count myself among that number, true." There was something ominous in the tense the Spaniard used.

"I am sorry then. Nicholas Fury is gone."

Cold struck his heart, "Killed?"

"Not as such. Gone. Perhaps dead."

"Explain."

"There are stranger things in heaven and earth, Mr. Murdoch. Suffice it to say that Fury left us in the manner he lived--nobly, and with honour, and protecting those who could not protect themselves."

This makes Matthew want to laugh. He wonders what Fury would think, to hear himself described in such terms as those. He would want to laugh too, Matthew is certain.

He wakes and he thinks he can still see the eyes, and something else. For even the darkness is a sort of blue, this morning.

****

It is not that Scottish James (who is also the King of England, though one of the prices of being the King of England is apparently being referred to as Scottish James) is expecting the Devil, per se. It is more that from the first time they met, he has never stopped expecting the Devil, around each corner or especially when he is alone, in darkness. He has taken to keeping a little night-light about him, like Psyche's candle, that he might not be caught unawares by such demons again. But the demon somehow always manages to put the candle out before the King can see him.

His heart beats a little faster and he asks, "Who's there!?" Though he knows full well who it is.

"You know full well, Jimmy." Says the Devil, a pale grin in silhouette through what little light streams in through the window. James swears that he had ordered all the windows on this floor barred and sealed tight, but--well, the Devil is the Devil, after all. And though a certain practical part of the King does not really believe that it is truly the Devil Himself comes to him in darkness and insinuates into his ear--other explanations are uglier, and strictly limited. "And you know why too. Fury is dead."

James could deny it, deny he knows anything--but he can't bring himself to speak. The Devil has him by the throat and his hot thumbs are digging into cold flesh. The truth is that he does not know for certain if Fury is dead or not, though he has heard vague rumor that this is the case. It doesn't matter. The Devil is not done speaking,

"I am not pleased, Jim. I told you that I would not be pleased, if anything were to happen to Fury. And now that something has, you didn't really expect I'd be slack on my word, did you?"

"It wasn't me!" The King is terrified. His knees buckle under him, and he is held up only by the rough, calloused skin of the Devil's hands, the cruel curves of his biting nails. James swears--will later swear, if only in private--that he smells brimstone on the Devil's breath, "I didn't... I don't know... please, stop!"

The Devil lets go of him, and he falls forwards like a rag doll on the stones and carpet; his crown clatters and rolls away from him. He stares at it helplessly as the Devil crouches over him, rolls him onto his back and places a booted foot on his chest. The Devil's face is but an inch from his own, his fire-colored hair falling tickling the King's nose.

"Why don't you tell me why I shouldn't be upset with you, Jim. You Protestant bastards like to keep your sins between you and God, don't you? Do you imagine you can keep them from me as well? Let's hear your confession then, and if I like it, maybe you can keep your sorry skin."

James talks. He tells the Devil everything. He tells him how he sent Banner, the boy, and a whole group of men to the new world and how he received no word back but a declaration from the Colony at Roanoke that it was now free of him and England all, that the duly elected governor of Virginia was one Sir Richard Reed, Master Dare his Lieutenant, and that England need deal with this province as a sovereign state all her own--and that it be published Virginia a safe haven for the Witchbreed (not that that was the term used-- _Mutantur_ or something, having to do with change--all, where they might live and prosper free from Church prosecution, or the prying claws of the inquisition. There were a lot of other demands and the like, but this was the cream of it.

"...your sort of land," James added, hoarsely, so sure of his impending death the now that it behooved him to get one or two in at the Devil, which might perhaps add to his own credit at the great Accounting, "but I don't know what happened to Fury. They did have the courtesy to inform me that my assassins were all dead, but when I asked the courier as to the fate of Fury, he simply smiled and said that he was gone--away."

The Devil considered this, edging the toe of his boot towards the royal throat, and frowning. "Did I tell you to stop?" He asked, laconic and droll, though he ignored the King's gulp and sudden expulsion of pithy, petty sins--everything from childish impiety to lustful thoughts for pretty young men, to marital indifference, to all the usual muck and filth of the human mind and soul. Not that the Devil was much one to talk, as he brooded internally on the matters at hand, and scratched his chin. Finally, he turned his red-wrapped eyes down at the King, who stared at the bandage as if he were afraid that flames would burn through the thin fabric any moment.

"You are going to grant the colonists their sovereignty," said the Devil, matter of factly, "You are going to grant them whatever they want. You are going to write this and have it posted with the royal seal. As for the Witchbreed--you're going to turn a blind eye, as it were, to any such rumors of such in the British Isles. I don't want to hear of any burnings, beheadings, torturing or imprisoning either. You don't have to make a public show of helping them--but you're not going to help the Inquisition either, are you?" The toe of the boot pressed firmly on the King's bobbing Adam's apple, he could feel the throat swallow under the sole of it, "I am a good deal more frightening than the Inquisition, after all, though like them, I can come up with something far more profound than simply killing you. Nic Fury is gone, you say--how would you like to disappear, Jimmy? How would you like to one day be the far, far too visible, vulnerable King of England and Scotland, and the next day--to be simply gone? Without a trace? Your whereabouts and eventual fate a mystery for the ages, like the treasure of the Templars, unbeknownst to all--save, of course, yourself... and me. How would you like that, Bonny Jim?"

Truth be told, there was something in the King that liked the sound of it very much. What a relief, what a comfort, to simply be--not? Though when dealing with the Devil... his imagination failed at what the grinning visage might have cooked up behind its leer, it's crimson bandage, it's burning brow. And besides, he was too busy choking to think clearly, the pressure from the devil's foot cutting off air. He tried to shriek, and coughed instead, wracking, horrible coughs. The pressure lessened.

"What was that, Jim?"

"All right! All right! Whatever you want."

"Good, good. I am glad to hear it, Jimmy. Though don't get any ideas of loading all the Witchbreed on a boat to the Americas and sinking `em halfway either, Because I will hear of it. I can see where it's darkest--and the darkest place I've seen is the interior of your heart, Bonny Jim. And I will be watching you."

And then the Devil was gone, and there was nothing above him but darkness, darkness and empty darkness. The King scrambled to his knees, feeling about for his circlet--ah, there it was--but as he felt he noted that the gem in the center was gone, leaving nothing but an empty socket where it ought to have been.

"THEIF!" The King cried, "The Devil is a..."

The humor inherent in that statement struck him suddenly, and he sat back on his knees and laughed, clutching the crown in his hands, until the tears flowed down his cheeks and his guard found him like that, shaking, nearly blinded with bitterness and with relief.

****

The measure was passed quietly in the Parliaments of both England and Scotland, through the stubborn insistence of the King--though with amazingly little fuss. The articles nominally recognised the specific geographic area represented on the maps brought by Dare on his last sojourn to England as `The Sovereign Commonwealth of Virginia,' though stressed that this did not limit the colonization of the rest of the Continent of North or South America as outside of the interests of the crown, though at the moment, it did not seem prudent or an especially useful expenditure of resources to engage in any colonial enterprises. It is likely that the passage of this act was helped largely by the pointing out that to oppose the matter--that is, to try to reclaim the colony and tax it--would require a substantial levying of greater taxes at home, a move which the English Parliament had hitherto refused to make, and which lay dearer to their heart than the jealous claim of a small, far distant colony in a land full of savages. Further, a nominally anti-papist article was passed which declared that Rome stay out of the handling, arrest, and punishment of English Witches and Witchbreed, which were hitherto to be handled by a special ecclesiastical commission, to be appointed by the house of Commons.

The first men appointed to this Commission were a German-born Anglican friar named Kurtus Wagner, and a Lord James Howlett.

And the whispers of witchcraft, instead of being fermented in the wake of this new Commission, seem to become fewer and fewer--perhaps due to the fact that in spite of the swiftness and effiacy with which such respond to these reports, surprisingly little blood is spilled. And if Rome is frothing at the mouth, well, that is their business. The Devil, at the least, seems pleased, and if the Devil is pleased, then the King is pleased.

James knows his true master, and calls his name Fear.

****

The man is looking at him, and he is looking at the man. He licks his lips something like nervously and swallows.

"Carlos Javier," Matthew murmurs at the blue eyes, "How are you doing this?"

Javier smiles at him. It is a bright, if old sort of smile, and it makes Matthew smile in return.

"I suppose I can tell you. Richard Reed helped me to design a device to amplify my powers of mind-reading--telepathy--further than were previously thought possible. Specifically, I have fine-tuned the device to hone in on Witchbreed wherever they may be. You I remembered from Von Doom's..."

"I'm not Witchbreed," Matthew interrupts him, "I wasn't born this way, like your... others."

"No," Javier nodded, "But _omina mutantur_ \--all things Change. Whether it occurs in the womb of woman or in the life of man is inconsequential. If they would burn you for being, if they knew what you were--that alone makes you one of us."

"Don't know if I care to be one of you," said Matthew with shrug, looking at the sky. It was the same color as Javier's eyes. It was magnificent.

"Thank you for aiding us." Javier nodded, and Matthew's eyes narrowed.

"You're in my mind right now, aren't you?"

Javier nodded, "I don't mean to alarm you. Forgive me, but this is the only way I could communicate with you. You are seeing, to a degree, through my eyes. Though in my eyes," he laughed, "I am not a cripple."

"You couldn't alarm me if you... A cripple?" He vaguely recalled--the lame man carried about on the back of the Beastlike creature. Oh yes. Right. "Ha! It is like they say then--about the lame leading the blind, or the other way around."

"Something like that." Javier agreed with a nod. Matthew leaned against a tree--like and unlike any tree he'd known in Europe--and thought.

"What does it mean, anyway--to be Witchbreed?"

"To be Different." Javier said, "To be more. And to be feared, hated, and persecuted for it. To live in fear, but always--with hope."

"Then I am exempt," Chortled Matthew, "I have no fear."

"Don't you?" The Blue eyes fixed his eyes, and Matthew found himself at a loss. It may have been--well, there was very little sense in trying to hide from a mind reader, was there? He could be angry at being pinned down, at having been hunted like this--but he was not. He was more... curious.

"It will be some time before I can join you," He mused, "Not really a fan of boats, myself. And Someone's got to keep an eye on the Scot--make sure he doesn't have a crisis of conscience."

Javier nodded his head and smiled, "It is enough, friend Matthew, and there is time. Now that you have seen for yourself. For the moment... it is pleasant to converse like this, I think, to stand--and talk."

Matthew threw his head back and laughed, a rich, full laugh, and dropped an arm around the Spaniard's shoulders.

"You could put it like that, methinks, you could indeed."

And he grinned the devil's grin, and eyes wide open, dared much.


End file.
